The Empty House
by Jason Layton
Summary: You know the story, with my own twist. Finished.
1. Chapter 1

That March was a blurry nightmare, when I look back all I remember clearly was piles of magazines, samples and invites. I had proposed on the 29th of February, just after the pregnancy was confirmed, but I was regretting agreeing to a quickie wedding. My Fiancée had taken every free moment to plan, and had called upon hitherto unknown girlfriends to provide what I feared was going to be the most expensive wedding on record.

It was three years since Sherlock Holmes had died, and although I thought I would never really get over the pain and loss, I was getting on with my life. Before our run through Europe I had been planning on starting up practice as a private consultant of general surgery. The NHS budgets had been cut to such a level that even after I'd finished my first years Consultancy CPD, it was clear my skills were better suited to private practice. I had an arrangement with The London Bridge private hospital and had turned the front drawing room of the Kensington House into a Study and private consulting room. Although I'd initially used Baker Street, the ghosts of the past had become stifling and I thought with my expanding family working at least partly from home would have it's advantages.

Despite everything that was already going on in my life in the spring of 2020, I like the rest of London was fascinated with the case of the honorable Ronald Adair. The public has already learned those particulars of the crime, which came out in the police investigation; but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links, which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life. Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I think of it and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy, amazement, horror, and incredulity, which utterly submerged my mind.

My work with Sherlock Holmes had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his death I never failed to read with care the latest crime which gripped the nation, and I even attempted more than once for my own private satisfaction to employ his methods in their solution. I had remained close to Scotland Yard and especially DCI Lestrade and his team, and was often the silent member of the team, an outside eye or sounding board when they were stuck. The tragedy of Ronald Adair was one such case, when Lestrade came and sought me out.

As I read the evidence from the autopsy, I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss, which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock Holmes. There were points about this strange business, which would, I was sure, have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of the police would have been supplemented, or more probably anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. At the risk of telling a twice-told tale I will recapitulate the facts, as the public at the conclusion of the autopsy knew them.

Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of Maynooth, the late US Ambassador. Adair's mother had returned from her native America to undergo the operation for cataracts, and she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hermione were living together at 427, Park Lane. The youth moved in the best society, had, so far as was known, no enemies, and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Erica Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for his habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young toff that death came in most strange and unexpected form between the hours of ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 13th, 2020.

Ronald Adair was fond of gambling; playing continually, but never for such stakes as would hurt him financially. He was a member of the Online Poker, , and the Foxy . It was shown that after dinner on the day of his death he had played 4 lines at the latter site. He had also played in the afternoon at The Gunshot Club in central London. The evidence of those who had played with him - Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Sebastian Moran - showed that the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the cards. Adair might have lost fifty pounds, but not more and such a loss could not in any way affect him. He had played nearly every day at one club or other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It came out in evidence that in partnership with Colonel Moran he had actually won as much as four thousand two-hundred pounds in a sitting some weeks before from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral.

On the evening of the crime he logged of his computer at exactly ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation. The Swedish Housekeeper deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting room, and open the window to smoke. No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say goodnight, she had attempted to enter her son's room. The door was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their cries and knocking. Help was obtained and the door forced. The unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. An expanding revolver bullet had horribly mutilated his head, but no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table lay two bank notes for fifty pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in small coins, the money arranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper with the names of some club friends opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before his death he was endeavoring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given why the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had done this and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow strip of grass, which separated the house from the road. Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened the door. But how did he come by his death?

No one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Suppose a man had fired through the window, it would indeed be a remarkable shot that could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane one of the busiest streets in London, and there is a taxi rank within a hundred yards of the house. Yet nobody had heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man, and they're the revolver bullets, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted a wound, which must have caused instantaneous death. Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove the money or valuables in the room.

I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavoring to hit upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be the starting-point of every investigation. Lestrade had come to the house to discuss the case with me, and was uncomfortably placed amongst piles of bridal magazines. I confess that we made little progress, and in the end my Fiancée had joined us and our path of conversation had turned to our impending nuptials.

"You will come won't you Greg?" My Fiancée pressed him.

"Your definitely sure? There won't be any problems with the paperwork or anything?" he asked.

"No," I assured him "I spoke to our friend in intelligence he guaranteed it."

"In which case I will keep the date free, and be glad to come"

"Good, you're the best man."


	2. Chapter 2

In the evening I strolled across Regents Park, and found myself about six o'clock at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of sightseers and gawpers were huddled on the pavements, all staring up at a particular window, directed me to the house which I had come to see. A tall, thin plain-clothes detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in some disgust.

I wondered briefly if I should inform Lestrade of his DC's moonlighting as a tour-guide, but as I did my mind was brought back to thoughts of my marriage. My Fiancée was intelligent, beautiful and loved me dearly, but we had started trying for a baby early because neither of us was getting any younger, and we were informed it might take a while to conceive. In reality she had fallen pregnant within a few weeks and now the proposal I had wanted to take time over, had been and gone and the wedding I had imagined planning together slowly over time was a few weeks away. Sometimes I wished that I could go back three years in time and join Sherlock wherever the fates had led him.

My state of mind ruined by my maudlin thoughts I started to walk back towards my home when I struck against an elderly deformed man, who had been standing behind me, and I knocked down several books, which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up I observed the title of one of them, "The Origin of Tree Worship," and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavored to apologize for the accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

Angry at the way I had been treated by the bent pensioner I retraced my steps to Kensington. I hesitated at the bottom of our tiled footpath, staring up at the darkened house, I knew my Fiancée was at home, as the trace of light from the upstairs bathroom was ghosted upon the front window. For a second I considered walking all the way to Baker Street, where my Fiancée and I still paid Mrs Hudson to keep my old rooms as they had been three years previously. It would be nice to sleep in my old bed, and hide away from lace and lilies. However my senses of moral fortitude forced me up the path and in through the front door, a call of acknowledgement to my beloved and I went and hid in my own room.

I had not been in my study five minutes when my Fiancée's 11-year-old son entered to say that there was a very strange person at the door who desired to see me. To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book-collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least, wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir?," said he, in a strange, old fashioned croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books."

"You make too much of a nothing," said I. "May I ask how you knew who I was?"

"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir; here's `British Birds,' and `Catullus,' and `The Holy War' - a bargain every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me, the shelf was partially empty and my Fiancée had mentioned it only the day before. It was odd to hear a stranger's voice admonishing me for what she had only a few hours earlier. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study desk. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

* * *

OK sorry for the plagiarism but Conan Doyle really was ahead of his time, and his words are great!

I am in a pickle I love reviews, they are great, and give me the warm fuzzies, but if I continue the story as I wanted you'll hate it, so I'm in two minds.

Just a warning!

Jas xx


	3. Chapter 3

"John," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."  
I gripped him by the arms.  
"Sherlock Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?"  
"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."

He looked around the room with a smile, my heart stopped in my throat somewhat when his eyes lingered upon a picture of my fiancée her young son and myself.

"I am all right" I told him, thankfully interrupting his investigation of my study "but I can hardly believe my eyes. That you should be standing in my study, in this study, here." Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're not a ghost, anyhow," said I. "My dearest love, I'm overjoyed to see you, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm."

He sat opposite to me, placing his dirty combat boots on my scrubbed desk in a nonchalant manner. He was dressed in the dirty overcoat of the old bookseller, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old books upon my diagnostic bed. Holmes looked even thinner than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face, which told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one. At nearly 40, his faced should have been lined but somehow that keen visage was still hauntingly young and beautiful. Like Dorian Grey I worried briefly he may have really sold his soul.

"I am glad to stretch myself, John," said he. "It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end. Now, in the matter of these explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that work is finished. After all my dearest friend, I find you may owe me some explanation of your own."

I was full of curiosity and would have preferred to know there and then, but my own guilt and growing horror at the situation I now found myself in, would allow me to gladly wait for eternity for explanation, as long as that eternity was spent in the presence of the man in front of me.  
"You'll come with me to-night?"  
"When you like and where you like."  
"This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason that I never was in it."  
"You never were in it?"

"No, my John, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the short note, which you afterwards received. I left it with my iphone and my stick, and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands. But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water."

I listened with amazement to this explanation, which he delivered.

"But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw, with my own eyes, that two went down the path and none returned.

He picked up the picture on my desk, it was a recently framed engagement photo, and as his long fingers trailed across the two faces. In his manner I could tell he had learned of our quiet scandal, so I was relieved at his next careful words. "Work is the best antidote to stress, my dear John," said he; "and I have a piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet."

In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see enough before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."


	4. Chapter 4

It was indeed like old times, and reminded me of those first few cases together. At around 8 I found myself seated beside my Sherlock in a black cab, a million questions on my lips, my Browning in my pocket and the thrill of adventure in my heart. I had sent my Fiancées son upstairs to tell her I was going out to visit a friend and would be home late. As I watched the little boy stare into the face of my companion, and Sherlock stare back in to small grey eyes my heart had stoppered with guilt. However nothing but a brief flash of vague recognition passed the boys face, and we left the house in silence.

Holmes was cold and stern and silent and the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his clipped features. I looked at him questioningly for a moment, and he turned.

"The boy doesn't recognise me?" he stated

"It's been three years, and he's going through a difficult puberty" I soothed.

"But still…" I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I felt it best not to try and comfort him, I was still unsure of my position in his heart and mind, and thought for the moment the best course of action would be to concentrate on the 'game' ahead.

"I knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good for the object of our quest."

I had observed that we were bound for Baker Street, but to my surprise Sherlock stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I noticed that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that we were not followed. Our route was one similar to our first together; my Sherlock's knowledge of the byways of London was extraordinary. On this occasion as with that first pursuit he passed rapidly and with an assured step through a network of mews and alleys, the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at last into a small road, lined with old, empty offices here he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, leapt a metal gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty house. The carpet crunched with filth and misuse, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which damp paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit from the lights of the street beyond. However the window was thick with dust, so that we could only just discern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

"Is that Baker Street?" I answered, staring through the dim window.

"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own home."

"But why are we here?"

"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile. Surely you remember staring through our own front window, at the troublesomely noisy couple in this house? My dear, kneel a little nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to look up at our window? You may will observe the second biggest surprise of your night."

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise of the head, and the sharpness of the features. The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black silhouettes, which Principle Skinner is so fond of in The Simpsons. It was a perfect reproduction of Sherlock Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my hand to make sure that the man himself was still kneeling beside me. He was giggling with silent infectious laughter that I was taken in with momentarily.

"Well?" said he, when our quiet giggling had died.

"It is brilliant." I cried, aware I sounded once again like the smitten man of ten years previously.

"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety," said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and pride which the artist takes in his own creation. "It really is rather like me, is it not?"

"I should be prepared to swear that it was you."

"The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during a visit to Baker Street this afternoon."

"But why?" I cursed myself for not carrying out my initial plan and attending the premises myself.

"Because, John, I had the strongest possible reason for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really elsewhere."

"And you thought the rooms were watched?"

"I knew that they were watched."

"By who?"

"By WHOM! Really John, by our old enemies. By the charming society whose leader lies in the Reichenbach Fall. I must confess they knew that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that I should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive."

"How do you know?" I reeled from the admission that he had been in London all day, been to Baker Street and no one, not even Mrs Hudson had informed us.

"Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of our window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, an armed robbery trade, and I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, and the most dangerous criminal in London. That is the man who is after me to-night John, and that is the man who is quite unaware that we are after him."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock's plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this high garret the watchers were being watched and the trackers tracked and the bust in 221b's window was the bait. We knelt together, pressed as close as lovers, our breathing regulating together in the darkness watching the cast of characters parading their scene along Baker Street.

Sherlock was silent and motionless; his head resting unconsciously on my shoulder but I could tell that he was alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by. The night was terrible, dark and wet while the wind whistled shrilly down the long street. My mind briefly fled back to Kensington, my Fiancée would probably have gone to bed by now, her son pressed beside her in our bed, the storm would scare him, and they always did.

Many people were passing on the crowded street below most of them muffled in their coats and scarves, despite the spring mornings we were having bad night weather, and many were prepared. However I often had seen the same figures passing before, there coats might stand out or there scarves were pulled too low and I especially noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house some distance up the street.

I pointed them out to Sherlock but he gave a little cry of impatience, and continued to stare into the street. He had removed his head from my shoulder and the feeling of light emptiness was unnerving. I realized it was the feeling I had had for three years, but a feeling that had vanished a few hours ago. I looked across at his face framed in the half-light and smiled, the feeling faded, because he was still there.

Sherlock was fidgeting with his feet and tapping rapidly with his fingers against the wooden sill. It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy, and that his plans were not working out altogether as he had hoped. My knees were seizing, and shifting around, sitting briefly with my back against the wall and my legs splayed in front of me.

"Are you OK?" he asked me, voice and face full of concern.

"Yeah, I'm just getting old." I replied rubbing my legs, he smiled and nodded wistfully.

At last, as midnight approached and the street gradually cleared, Sherlock paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. It was the same manic walk he'd performed 12 years previously at Moriarty's swimming pool. I was about to make some remark to him, when I glanced the window of 221b. I clutched his arm, and pointed towards it.

"The bust has moved!" I cried. "It's no longer the profile, but turned towards us".

He looked at me eyes wide, and I thought three years obviously hadn't dampened his disregard for my intelligence, or his incredulity at he ongoing stupidity of the human condition.

"Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical bungler, John, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may never be seen."

I was reeling from his use of our landlady, and her willing acceptance to be his partner in this adventure when he drew in his breath with a shrill, excited intake. I was shocked to my feet and in an instant was by his side. In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward with his whole body rigid with attention. Baker street was empty apart from the two men still be crouching in the doorway, and all was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure outlined upon it. Again in the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An instant later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips.

As in happier more familiar time the fingers which clutched me were quivering, yet I had never known him to show such excitement whilst working. However to even to my once carefully trained eyes the dark street still stretched lonely and motionless before us. Suddenly I became aware of that which his keener senses had already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which we now lay concealed.

I heard the sound of a door being quietly opened and shut, and an instant later the sound of steps creeping along the hallway someone was carefully trying to avoid being heard even inside a supposedly empty house. Remembering the layout from our own entrance, I could here someone avoiding the hazards in the rotting passage. Sherlock took crouched back against the wall, gently forcing me to do the same, whilst my hand closed upon the handgrip of my Browning. Peering through the dank gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, into the room. He stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. The attitude was one I had seen a lifetime ago during my training, that of a sniper at his work. He was within three yards of us, yet I realized that he had no idea of our presence.

As he crouched at the level of the window, the light of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his face. He seemed full of flush excitement, and two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working convulsively. He was an older man, and I put his age at ten years on top of mine with a thin, projecting nose, and a high, bald forehead. He was wearing black combat clothing, putting his gaunt face in sharp relief and highlighting deep, savage lines. He was carrying a long black case, which I recognized as a sniper case, and as I watched he carefully removed his weapon.

He checked the rifle much as I would have done, gently and carefully, but as my mind searched for the name of the weapon, I realized I had never seen this particular model. This man was obviously a professional and I guessed the weapon was a handmade piece designed for him alone. He gently loaded the single breach and then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window. I heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and his eyes gleamed as he saw that amazing target, the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of his foresight. For an instant he was rigid and motionless. Then his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass.

At that instant Sherlock sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled him flat upon his face. Although to my surprise he was up again in a moment and with a strength that was surprising for his age he seized the detective by the throat, but I struck him on the head with the butt of my Browning, and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my texted furiously on his hitherto concealed phone. There was the clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one particular familiar DCI, rushed through the front entrance and into the room.


	6. Chapter 6

"That you, Lestrade?" said Sherlock, squinted at my would-be Best man as if assessing him for the first time.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in London." Greg winked at me, and patted Sherlock's back.

"You are currently working on 4 unsolved cases" Sherlock told him, "You know where to find me, when you decide you need my help."

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers had begun to collect in the street. Sherlock stepped up to the window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had turned on the lights in the room and I was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.

It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face, which was turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities for good or for evil. However I could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's plainest danger-signals. He took no heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon my dearest's face with an expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended. "You fiend!" he kept on muttering. "You clever, clever fiend!"

"Ah, Sebastian!" said Sherlock, arranging his rumpled collar. " 'Journeys end in lovers meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you favored me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall."

The prisoner still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. "You cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say.

"I have not introduced you yet," Sherlock said, a swirl of his coat, and wave of his hand establishing him as master of this room "This, gentlemen, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of 1st Battalion, The Royal Irish Regiment.

"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so easily," said Sherlock, seemingly forgetting about everyone else in the decaying room. "Have you never heard of the old Indian hunters trick? They tethered a young kid under a tree, and then they would lay above it with their rifles, and wait for the bait to bring up their tiger. This empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger. Those old hunters had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers. These," he pointed around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."

Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to look at. "I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said my friend. "I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you. With that exception, all has gone as I expected."

Moran turned to Lestrade in appeal. "You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he, "but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of this person. If I am in the hands of the law, let things be done in a legal way." My friend snorted with derision, but I saw that the Colonels words had struck with Greg.

"Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade. "Nothing further you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"

Sherlock however had picked up the rifle from the floor, and was examining it; "An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "silenced yet with no loss of power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years I have been aware of its existence though I have never before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which fit it."

"You can trust our ballistic investigators, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade wearily, as the whole party moved towards the door. "Anything further to say?"

"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

"What charge? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all. To you and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest, which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity, you have got him."

"Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"

"The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honorable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet from an adapted sniper rifle through the open window of the second-floor front of No. 427 Park Lane. That's the charge, Lestrade. And now, John, if you can endure the draught from a broken window, I think we should return home and continue our conversation of earlier."

I followed him out of the house, like the puppy the Yard always assumed I was, dreading the coming conversation.


	7. Chapter 7

My Fiancée had insisted that our old flat be left unchanged through the supervision of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I saw, it's true, an awful messiness, but the old landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical experiments littering the kitchen and the acid-stained work counter. There upon a shelf was the row upon row of reference books, which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The books of codes, the religious texts, the Bible, the Torah and Qu'ran. The diagrams, the violin-case, and skull all met my eyes as I glanced round me. I had been here many times since I Sherlock had 'died', but this time the room was somehow brighter, like someone had turned the lights on.

There were two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we entered—the other, the strange dummy which had played so important a part in the evening's adventures. It was a wax-colored model of my friend, so admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal table with an old dressing gown of Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely perfect.

"I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said Sherlock, embracing her in his usual way.

"I went to it on my knees just as you told me." She confirmed, chucking him under the chin as he let her go.

"Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe where the bullet went?"

"I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, it went right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!"

He held it out to me. "A soft revolver bullet, as you see John. There's genius in that, for who would expect to find such a thing fired from a sniper rifle? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I am much obliged for your assistance. And now, John, let me see you in your old seat once more, for there are several points which I should like to discuss with you."

Mrs Hudson placed a soft hand on my shoulder, and smiled reassuringly before disappearing downstairs to her own flat. I briefly wondered what she and Lestrade thought about my current difficulties. Neither seemed to be treating me any differently than the day before, but still I felt the weight of this whole new world resting upon me. I watched my dearest Sherlock, perching upon his chair as if he'd never left, fixing me with an appraising gaze. I wished I could read him as well as he could read me, my eyes rested upon the photograph above the fireplace, it was taken 5 years previously when we had all lived here, it showed, Sherlock, myself, my Fiancée and both her sons.

Sherlock had thrown off the over coat from earlier, and now he was the Holmes of old in blue silk dressing gown, which he took from his effigy, and crouched with the bust on his lap.

As he inspected the shattered forehead of his bust he spoke "Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the brain. He was the best shot in Northern Ireland, and I expect that there are few better in London." He picked up his laptop, from the desk beside him, he started scrolling an I assumed he was traversing his index of biographies.

"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abnomible memory, and Matthew's, who knocked out my left canine in that milling room under Charing Cross, and, finally, here is our friend of tonight."

He handed over the computer, and I read:

MORAN, SEBASTIAN AUGUSTUS; COLONEL. Unemployed. Formerly 1st Battalion The Royal Irish Regiment. Born London, 1960. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B., once British Ambassador to Japan. Educated Eton and Oxford. Served in Northern Ireland, Afghanistan and Bosnia. Author of _Survival in the Desert _(2001); _Three Months In The Jungle_ (2004). Address: 45a Lambs Conduit Street.

On the margin was written, in Sherlock's precise hand:

The second most dangerous man in London.

"This is astonishing," said I, as I handed back the volume. "The man's career is that of an honorable soldier."

"It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain point he did well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told how he crawled down a rat hole in Belfast following a 'sewer rat' and finding a bomb under a primary school. There are some trees, John, which grow to a certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity."

At this I stared up at him, and saw he was appraising me again. My blood was running cold at his words, but he continued.

"You will see it often in humans. I have a theory that the individual represents in his development the whole procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the line of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history of his own family."

"It is surely rather fanciful." I thought suddenly of the horror of his own father, and then my sister's own problems.

"Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran began to go wrong. Without any open scandal he still made the army too hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again acquired an evil name. It was at this time that Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the staff, sought him out. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have some recollection of the death of Stewart Lauder, in 2015. Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be proved. So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when the Moriarty gang was broken up, I could not incriminate him.

You remember when I informed you of my desire to flee to Europe? How I sent the others away and boarded the windows in fear of snipers? No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of the best shots in the world would be behind it.


	8. Chapter 8

. "You have not made it clear what was Colonel Moran's motive in murdering the Ronald Adair?" I asked him after a break in our conversation. I could see we were getting close to the crux of our problem, and I was unsure of what conclusion we were coming too. I decided first and foremost I was still his blogger, and to be faithful to those who had remained patient during this three-year hiatus I should glean the facts as my genius knew them.

"Ah! my dearest Boswell, there we come into those realms of conjecture, where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is as likely to be correct as mine." He smiled widely and I saw the warmth he once saved just for me.

"You have formed one, then?"

"I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between them, won a considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly played foul, a man like that with his sponsor gone would do little else. I believe that on the day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his membership of the club, and promised not to play cards again."

I laughed at the old fashioned way Sherlock explained his theory. "You are aware you sound like a 19th century novel?" I teased him, but he just pouted at me.

"It is unlikely that a young man like Adair would risk exposing himself to the wrath of the other players. The world of Poker and cards still has an old fashioned feel, especially outside the world of midnight champion ITV poker. Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion from his clubs would mean ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten card-gains. He therefore murdered Adair, who at the time was endeavoring to work out how much money he should himself return, since he could not profit by his partner's foul play. He locked the door lest the ladies should surprise him and insist upon knowing what he was doing with these names and coins. Will it pass?" he sat back, giving me his look.

"I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth." I told him, laughing again at his need to please me.

"It will be verified or disproved at the trial, if it ever gets that far. Meanwhile, come what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous rifle of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those interesting little problems which the complex life of London so plentifully presents." He laughed once, and walked towards the fireplace.

I watched him standing there, looking into the fire, his forehead resting on the mantle his gown was pulled around him, and he seemed deep in thought. I was aware that it was now technically the next day, my Fiancée would wonder where I am, her son would wonder where I was, if I didn't return home by a reasonable hour my clients would wonder where I was. Equally I could continue on the path I had already started upon, rest my head back on my chair, allow my tired mind to slip into REM sleep, and stay in the companionable warmth of my old home, safe and fulfilled as if the last three years had never happened.

"John, I think I need to explain this to you, I owe you an apology, you need to know." He was looking at me now.

I groaned and shifted in my seat, his eyes were burning me, but I will admit curiosity was getting the better of me.

"Tell me, three years, not a word where have you been? You left me, you left us, what happened?"

He sat back on his chair opposite me, sighed heavily, took my hand and started his tale.

"It came about in this way. The instant that Moriarty had fallen, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky chance Fate had placed in my way. Moriarty was not the only man who had sworn my death. If you remember our first day together you told me you'd met an enemy of mine, and I asked which one? There were at least three other men whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader. They were all most dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they would take liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open, and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall."

I gasped at this, an pulled my hand away from him. "You took this decision on your own on a whim?" I was hurt and distraught But he took my hand again, and begged me to let him explain.

"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer. That was not literally true. A few small footholds presented themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed my boots as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, John. The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched, when you, my dearest, and all you're following were investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death."

* * *

Out of position and out of context I'm plagiarising Doyle again, I actually hate this explanation but I'm not bright enough to come up with a better one. lol

Jas xx


	9. Chapter 9

Listening from the wrong end to what I had thought for the last three years as my friends last moments had a strange effect upon me. I felt like I was travelling out of my body, my own problems seemed laughable compared to the greatest mind of his generation hanging and stumbling on rocks thousands of feet above the chasm his enemy had just plunge into. For the longest time I sat there thinking how strange the evening had become, and something in my visage must have alerted my companion to my thoughts.

"Are you OK John?" he asked rubbing his thumb along the palm of my hand.

"Yes, I'm fine, really. What happened next? What did you do?"

"When you had all formed your inevitable and totally erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head against the darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon which I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone."

"It made sense of course a confederate, I had not traveled alone why should Moriarty? Even that one glance had told me how dangerous a man that confederate was, and that he had kept guard while his master had attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death and of my escape. He had waited, and then making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavored to succeed where his comrade had failed."

"I did not take long to think about it, John. Again I saw that grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path."

My heart was in my mouth at the news of his adventure, as thrilling as any tale he had told me, or any case I had documented. I knew myself to be a fool but I sat on the edge of my chair, yearning for more information. I knew also that one day I would be able to tell my loyal readers of this tale, and was desperate to ensure that I missed no small part of his tale.

Sherlock continued a pace "I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me. Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. "

I nodded my understanding of this although blood and bile was up at his disregard for my own ability to choose my own destiny. I needed him, I needed our work, and the insufferable man in front of me decided to take that choice away from me. I also couldn't believe he had done this alone, there was a secret here he wasn't telling me about. For the moment I was curious enough to let him continue.

"The course of events in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I traveled for two years around Central Asia, therefore, and amused myself by visiting the Bhutanese monastery Jangsa Gompa in Kalimpong, and spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend. I then passed through Saudi, looked in at Mecca, then paid a short but interesting visit to The House of Saud, the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the nuclear derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France."

"Having concluded this to my satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. You may be assured that I had read the papers with some attention during my sojourn in France, on the lookout for any chance of laying Moran by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my life would really not have been worth living. Night and day the shadow would have been over me, and sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight, or I should myself be in the dock. There was no use appealing to the police the CPS cannot interfere on the strength of what would appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do nothing."

"I watched the rolling TV news religiously, knowing that sooner or later I should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald Adair. My chance had come at last. Knowing what I did, it was certain that Colonel Moran had done it. He had played cards with the lad, he had followed him home from the club, and he had shot him through the open window. There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone would enough to confirm a conviction and so I came over at once. I was seen by the sentinel of tonight's adventures, who would, I knew, direct the colonel's attention to my presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure that he would make an attempt to get me out of the way _at once_, and would bring round his murderous weapon for that purpose."

"I called in my own person at Baker Street, and threw Mrs Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that you had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear John, that at two o'clock today I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old family surrounding me again. I had arranged my decoy in advance as to leave Colonel Moran an excellent mark in the window, and, having warned the police that they might be needed, shocking DI Donovan out of all sense by the way. I took up what seemed to me to be a judicious post for observation, never dreaming that he would choose the same spot for his attack."


	10. Chapter 10

"Now, my Dear John, does anything remain for me to explain?" He asked me, glancing over at the dying fire.

"There's something your not telling me" I told him, relishing the shock look on his face, it would normally be Sherlock who made such a statement. He bowed his head and smiled.

"You are of course correct, but how did you know?"

"You couldn't survive for three years without money and connections, but I have to know for my own sanity, which one of them was it?"

"I had one confidant my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies, my dearest, but it was all-important that it should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the money which I needed."

My blood ran cold, Mycroft knew. It was to Mycroft that my mind had first fled that terrible Swiss afternoon three years earlier. It had been Mycroft who had arranged my flight home, and comforted me in those first awful days. He had been with me when I had informed the rest of our Baker Street family of the horrendous loss we ha suffered. Most distressingly it had been to Mycroft I had turned when the events surrounding his brothers death had made paperwork difficult. Strangely I was more betrayed by the elder Holmes than I could ever have been with the junior.

"Mycroft was acting under my instructions, keeping you and our family safe, John. If you must have that murderous look, those dark thoughts let them be aimed at me, not him. If the case against Moriarty's men had ended sooner and in a better way, his deception would have been short and forgivable. Sadly as time went on his deception had to remain, although I am sure you realize how hard that must have been for him."

I stood, running my hands through my hair. I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, instead I walked to the window and was stopped from my thoughts by the realization that dawn had come upon us.

"What will you do now?" I asked my friend, weary beyond belief I scarce believed he was back for good.

"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Sherlock; "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of the late lamented Moriarty."

"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree with you," I answered, interested by his turn thought.

"Well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, "The community is certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field the morning paper would have presented infinite possibilities. Sometime only the smallest trace, the faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage, to the man who held the clue all could be worked into one connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher criminal world no capital in Europe offered the advantages, which London then possessed. But now…" He shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things which he had himself done so much to produce.

"So you will leave again? Travel in your own name and right?" I asked trying to keep the disappointment from my voice, I was about to be a father, I had a new business and a nice home, I had no right to ask him to stay for me. Equally the night and the narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had never thought to see again, had put all my plans and all my life into uproar and I wasn't sure what would happen next.

He came and stood beside me in the early light, and turned my face to his. "Never, I have returned to where I belong, and if you agree so will you." He held my hand for a moment, then drew me forward and kissed me deeply.

"Of course I will stay but there's so much else that has to be decide Sherlock." I told him drawing away.

"Yes" he agreed sadly, "We had better go and tell your Fiancée, that her husband has returned from the dead.".

* * *

Ok so I've left the real twist to the very end, so hopefully it will stand as a normal 'empty house' fanfic, and you can ignore the rest if you want.

If you don't like the rest of my fics that run along this line, just leave it here, complete and don't read the rest.

Hope you enjoyed the rest though.

Jas xx


	11. Chapter 11

I dozed for a few hours at Baker Street, sat in my old chair whilst Sherlock re-opened and updated his website. Immediately messages had started pouring onto his forum and by 6 the noise of his rapid typing had woken me again.

"So John?" he asked me without looking around "Are we ready to face the music?"

I groaned "She's going to kill me" I told him.

"Nonsense!" he grabbed his coat and I was forced to follow him down the stairs, and into the back of a cab.

As we pulled up outside the house I wondered where we all stood, I hadn't discussed anything else with Sherlock. I had wanted to, but it felt like I was being disloyal to Lucy. Instead I had insisted we both went back to the house in the morning and spoke to her together. I have always believed myself to be an honorable man, and no matter how hard it would be she as the mother of both our children had to be involved in any decision.

Lucy had recently bought a 'new' toy, and I automatically checked it, parked outside our house her 1966 Pearl White Lamborghini Miura A, would be a goldmine for thieves. Sherlock tutted and I turned.

"Lucy's" I explained, as we turned and walked towards the house.

"Oh, OH! Oh right." He said his voice full of amusement and shock "I see"

I ignored him, and opened the door.

"Lucy? Lucy come down here!" I called up the stairs, and heard her tiny footsteps coming to meet me.

As she descended in her long lace Victorian nightdress, I thought briefly she looked like an angel descending. The slight swell of her stomach wasn't visible through the loose white gown, but the pride of knowing it was there was hardly diminished by the pain I was about to put her through. She smiled widely at me, her loose blonde hair framing her pale moon shaped face. She still took my breath away.

"Lucy?" Sherlock stepped out of the shadow of the stairs. Her face froze in horror and for a moment I stepped forward convinced she was going to fall. She clasped her hand to her stomach, and I knew her already frightening brachycardia would be at a dangerous level. Sherlock went to her, gently taking her hand and leading her down the stairs and into the living room in silence. Once she was sat down, staring up at his questioningly Sherlock turned to me.

"You didn't tell me she was pregnant?" he accused.

"I assumed Mycroft would have told you." I told him. "Why did you assure me it would all be okay?

"No" he said shaking his head "I was referring to the wedding. I knew when I saw the car. You know I assume its twins?"

"Yes" Lucy said, although I had no idea, she hadn't told me, "There are two heart beats".

I've always wanted children, even when there was just Sherlock and myself living at 221b, I fantasized about adopting a child of our own. I knew of course that Sherlock wasn't the most paternal of fathers and even before his disappearance I had been de-facto father to both his children. After he had gone, Lucy and I had tried to continue on the same way, just without him. When Simon had left for University, we had decided to try for a child of our own.

Without a body we had found difficulty in arranging a marriage, so when Lucy's pregnancy was confirmed I had gone to Mycroft for help. Mycroft the sneak, Mycroft who knew, knew all of it, our desire for a child, Lucy's pregnancy our need to get married to avoid the scandal of Lucy having an illegitimate child, had assured me all would be well, I could propose and set a date, and he'd arrange for any paperwork I needed. Mycroft who knew she could never marry me, as she was already married to my lover.

When we explained this to Sherlock he was unusually agitated, and I worried.

"You want to keep the …erm… children then?" he asked, but neither of us replied just stared at him incredulously. "You know we can't divorce?" he asked and we both nodded, painfully aware of the agreement between the Lucy and Sherlock's families. "Do you want me to claim they are mine?" he asked.

"No!" I told him "these are my children, I want everyone to know they are mine."

"We could murder Sherlock" Lucy suggested, but I am convinced she wasn't serious.

After several minutes of fruitless suggestion, Sherlock came to the only sensible solution.

"Could we just go back to the way we were before? A menage a trois? Will anyone really care?"


End file.
